Vulnerable
by Mint Pizza Queen
Summary: For the first time, he saw it. The one thing he had been looking for the whole time. The one thing he had been begging for through cryptic codes and texts. House and Wilson. COMPLETED.


**Fandom: **House, MD  
**Characters/Pairing:**Gregory House, James Wilson  
**Word Count: **1608  
**Rating: **PGish? PG-13ish?  
**Warnings: _Slight spoilers for the episode Birthmark._**Some language.  
**Disclaimer: **House, MD © David Shore  
**Author's Notes: _Spoilers for the episode Birthmark_**.I'm too excited to take it anymore. My head is going to friggen pop off like a bottle cap and I will spontaneously combust. D: Oh how I wish that they would just kiss and make up already. (tear)

* * *

He hates how things have turned out. He must have taken the wrong fork in that fabled road because now he's trying to backtrack and keeps tripping over rocks and falling into holes that weren't there when he traveled the path the first time.

He tries to pretend that nothing is wrong. House? You mean that famous diagnostician? Heard of him. Met him a couple times, worked with him for a while. Not that close.

He knows he's not fooling anyone; he sees Cuddy's disappointment in her pursed lips and tight eyes and can feel the dread in the tense hugs that Cameron gives him after her weekly visits. Foreman pretends to not care, but it's evident from the annoyed sounds and the long, drawn out breath on the other end of the phone line.

House is a completely different story. He's an open book, but there is nothing legible on the pages that are presented to him. He had been carrying a dictionary and a pocket translator with him for years, but he's just too damn tired and frustrated to put in the time and effort to try to understand anymore. So, he pushes the book away. Somehow, though, it seems that the same damn book keeps appearing before him and just begs to be read.

Wilson stares at the answering machine and sees a flashing one on the small screen. He frowns and presses the play button, hearing the machine programmed voice announce the number of messages before a loud beep plays and the message echoes in his empty apartment.

"Wilson? It's Cuddy," he reaches into the fridge and pulls out a plastic thermos, unscrews the cap to take a swig. "I'm calling to let you know that House's father died," he chokes on the liquid but regains enough control to listen to the rest of Cuddy's announcement. "The funeral is this weekend, and I would understand if you don't want to go. I'm just letting you know because I know Blythe wouldn't have wanted Greg to go alone. In any case, ignore this message if you want. Just wanted to let you know. Goodbye."

The message ends with another loud beep, and the programmed voice chortles gleefully the end of the messages as the answering machine goes back into its previous silence.

Wilson stares at the phone and his eyes dart towards the clock. It's well past ten, meaning that everybody would be home and in bed already. House may be asleep; it depended on how his leg was fairing.

Without any further hesitation, Wilson grabs the jacket from the bed and darts out the door. He doesn't even realize what he's doing until he finds himself sitting outside the familiar building with the ignition turned off.

The lights are off, he notes to himself. He's tempted to start up his car and drive away, to pretend that he was never here. He should after everything that has happened.

But he can't, so he opens the door and slides out, gently closing the door to avoid waking any light sleeper.

He tries the handle and finds that it's not even locked. It would be like Greg (no, House damnit, House) to leave it unlocked. He slips inside and gently closes the door. He expects to find empty bottles of pills scattered on the floor, maybe some shot glasses littering the coffee table with some week old pizza. From what he can see in the dark, the place is clean, and the scotch is surprisingly untouched in its clear container on the bookshelf. The only pills seen are a small bottle of Excedrin, which causes his lips to twitch in the corner in an unfamiliar fashion.

He brushes his fingers against the wall as he travels past the couch and heads towards House's bedroom. He can hear a fan going, muffled by the walls. The sound gets louder and only then does he realize that the door is open--something House had never done for as long as he could remember.

Either House was getting careless or he was getting comfortable with this new mindset. Maybe he was just hoping somebody would break into his house and shoot him as he slept soundly. Or maybe, just maybe--

Wilson purses his lips and peeks into the room and sees House curled into himself under the blankets. His hand is clenching to his pillow like it's a lifeline, and he looks just a little bit--

_Older?__ Tired? Stressed? _

It takes two long strides for him to make it the bedside. It takes less than two seconds to flip on the light and rouse House from his sleep, earning an alarmed expression from the man. His mouth flaps wordlessly as he tries to sit up but his leg starts to snap at him so he settles for propping himself up by his elbow.

Wilson wants to not care, but he can't, so he spares House and speaks first. "Why didn't you tell me?"

House seems to finds his voice and his eyes narrow slightly in honest confusion. "Tell you what?"

"Your dad died," House doesn't even flinch and Wilson narrows his eyes. "So you don't tell me?"

"Why should I? We're not friends anymore, _remember_?" He sneers at him and Wilson doesn't flinch either despite how hard it hits that chord so well.

"I get it. It's none of my business. So I didn't deserve a notice of some sort?" Wilson holds his hands out in a manner of expectation but House doesn't seem to be in a giving mood.

"You seemed to have got one without any help from me. So, what the hell are you doing here waking me up? Better yet, what the hell are you doing in my house?" House's eyes are angry and Wilson feels like he's looking in the mirror again. "Don't you have some other people to bother besides me? Get out."

He wants to stomp out, slamming doors and kicking things in the process, but he doesn't. He can't. Instead, he does the only thing he can.

"Do you want me to go to the funeral with you?"

House's eyes widen slightly before they return to their piercing state. "Who said I was even going?"

The air is knocked out of him at that instant. He can feel his jaw dropping and before he knows it, he's gripping the mattress with his face in House's in an angry snarl. "It's your father's funeral!"

"And your point?"

"You would do that to your father?!"

House reaches for his Vicodin bottle but doesn't even get to brush his fingers against the plastic because it's flying across the room from a quick swipe of Wilson's merciless hand. "Didn't need to be that dramatic."

"You would do that to your mother?!"

The man's face freezes before he glares at Wilson. "I wouldn't do that to my mother. My mother did nothing wrong. My father, on the other hand, ruined a lot of things for me when I was a kid. I never got to enjoy childhood like you probably did, _Jimmy_, so why should I go to an asshole's funeral and pay respect to him?"

"Don't go for him, go for your mother," Wilson snaps and doesn't even move when House attempts to get off the mattress to retrieve the bottle of pills. "Goodness knows she'll need all the help and support she can get."

It's at this point Wilson decides he doesn't even want to pursue the matter any further. He just lets out a defeated sigh and turns to leave, ignoring the grunt of pain that emanates from the crippled doctor. He's barely to the doorway when he's stopped by a quiet voice.

"Will you go with me?"

It's so quiet; it's almost as if it was never said. Yet it was heard, and it was said, and Wilson turns to regard the man with quiet curiosity.

House has seated himself on the edge of the mattress with the bottle in his hand. He's turning it slowly between his fingers, not once even touching the lid. He's staring at nothing in particular, and after a moment of awkward silence, he looks up hesitantly.

"Will you go with me--to dad's funeral?"

For the first time, he sees it. It's so painfully clear, and yet--it's there.

There was no need to push or pull, no stabbing or clawing. Just a single question, a single moment, and everything clicks together like they were always meant to.

Wilson wants to race across the room and hold him in a tight embrace. He wants to apologize and forgive; he wants to cry and laugh; he wants to smile and announce to the world that the big bad feud between him and House was over.

Instead, he allows his expression to waver, to soften, and he nods. "Yeah, I'll go with you."

House looks hesitant, albeit, a little unsure. "Will this ever get better, Wilson?"

He pauses before he allows his lips to quirk up slightly in a shy smile. "Yeah, if we work hard, I think it will."

House returns the smile and Wilson leaves the apartment, locking the doors before he slides into his car. He slips his key into the ignition but doesn't turn them, only sits in the car and lets the built up tension flow out through the overflow of tears and haggard gasps.

For the first time, he saw it. The one thing he had been looking for the whole time. The one thing he had been begging for through cryptic codes and texts.

_He looked so--unsure. Afraid. Hesitant._

_Vulnerable._


End file.
